


Forgotten

by acornsandarrows



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: AU, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, kind of coffee shop au except its a cafe and its not a coffee shop au at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2404781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acornsandarrows/pseuds/acornsandarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas is used to forgetting. </p>
<p>or<br/>au where everyone lives, kind of</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> this IS edited AHA  
> tac's the greatest

He takes one final look at Teresa, lying on the floor, and then jumps through the flat trans, and prays that now, finally, it’s over.

~

Thomas wakes up not remembering. He opens his eyes and for a second his whole body hurts like he’s lived a thousand years and not slept. Then the feeling vanishes and it’s just him lying in his bed. He rubs his face slowly, looking around the room. It’s warm under the duvet, he can feel the chill of the air and knows that when he gets out of bed it’s going to be cold. There’s a clatter from downstairs. _Probably Mom cooking breakfast,_ he thinks, and suddenly the pain is back. Then gone again. He shivers, and hauls himself out of bed.

~

“Morning Mom.”

She looks up over the top of the stove, and smiles.

“Bacon?”

“Please.” He sits down at the table. His mum looks up again, and hesitates.

“Are you alright honey?”

“Hmm?”

“You just look a little pale.” She presses a palm against his forehead and sets a plate of bacon in front of him. “No temperature though.”

“’M fine Mom. Good bacon.” He glances around the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”

“Left early to get to the office. Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks, looking worried, because Thomas suddenly gripped the edge of the table like he was falling. He frowns, looking down at his knuckles, which have gone white.   

“Yeah I’m… yeah. I just forgot something, don’t worry about it.” He gets up, and walks back to his room. He can’t… remember… what? Well obviously he can’t remember what he can’t remember. If he remembered that he’d remember what he didn’t— he shakes his head. Thomas knows he’s being stupid but he isn’t sure what else to do. His thoughts go in circles. The strangest thing of all is, this feeling of forgetfulness seems familiar.     

~

When he refers to himself as Thomas, his parents look at him in confusion.

“Who’s Thomas? A school friend?” his mother asks.

“I… what? No. No, I’m Thomas. Thomas is my name.” He looks from his mother to his father. “Isn’t it?”

They both gaze sadly back.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t heard them call him ‘Thomas’, or any other name for that matter, since he’s been home.

Since he’s been home? Thomas feels the pain in his body, tension spreads through his limbs, and he thinks he should run somewhere, flee something, but he’s not sure what.

“I’m going to bed.” He mumbles, and somewhere in the back of his head he knows that this is so unlike him, but he can’t bring himself to care.     

~

It occurs to Thomas (he calls himself Thomas still; he’s not sure why) that he doesn’t know how old he is. His parents never send him to school even though he thinks he could be the right age. It’s an odd, unsettling feeling, like he’s stuck in limbo. The pain doesn’t often leave him these days, and neither does the feeling that he’s forgotten something. It sits in the back of his mouth, it lingers in the pauses he takes when he speaks, it hollows out his chest and fills it like a cloying liquid until it’s almost suffocating and that’s when he decides he needs to move.

To do that, he realises, he needs money. And to get money, he needs a job.

He works behind registers, he washes cars and walks dogs. Finally he finds himself working at the local café with a small (tiny) apartment around the corner. He fills his days with shifts there, as the job is surprisingly thought-consuming, and he spends his evenings numbing his mind with tv and the occasional drink (he still doesn’t know how old he is but he can pass as 21 when he needs to). His life is cramped but he likes it. The pain starts to go away.

Until

Until the doorbell tinkles one afternoon and he looks up and feels as though he’s been punched in the face. A tall boy walks into the café, looking around, shoulders hunched against the cold from outside. He reaches the bar and glances up at the menu.

“Hot chocolate please.”

Thomas simply nods, because at that point he feels like his ability to speak has up and left. The boy isn’t looking at him, he’s looking around the shop. Thomas turns his back on him, not quite ready to be seen. The pain he’d worked so hard to alleviate is back; he can feel it vibrating between his teeth.

“Marshmallow?” he asks over his shoulder.

“I think so,” the guy says and Thomas can hear the smile in his voice.

Thomas pops one in, pushes down the lid, and steels himself for what’s to come. He turns, and slides the drink towards the other, who wraps his hands around it gratefully.

“That’ll be $4.50.”

“Right,” he says, glancing up, then down, then freezing, and then, slowly, very slowly, looking back up again. Thomas sees the blood leave his already pale face, the eyes widen.

“Careful.” He grabs the hot chocolate away and places it safely down onto the counter. The boy turns on his heel, and walks out of the shop. Thomas tries very hard not to notice his limp. He ends up drinking the hot chocolate himself. With a shot of vodka.

~

Thomas doesn’t sleep that night. In the course of one afternoon, he becomes convinced that this boy is it. This boy is the answer. If he can just track him down again, he’ll understand everything, and then maybe it’ll stop hurting.

However, after a night of ceaseless searching, Thomas comes to the conclusion that the only way he’ll ever see this boy again is if he returns to the café. Which, judging from his reaction to Thomas, isn’t all that likely.

So when he drags himself over to the café and sees the boy standing outside, rubbing his hands together, he almost falls over with shock. The boy looks over, sees him, and takes a deep breath.

“Hi,” says Thomas.

“Yeah,” says the other. He keeps looking at Thomas, then away again very fast, as though his face is a bright light and he doesn’t want to be blinded by it.

“Would you like to come in?” Thomas motions towards the shop. The boy takes another deep breath, and shrugs.

“Why not?” he says, like he’s trying to think of a reason. They both teeter for a second before Thomas pushes open the doors.

“I gotta do work things for a bit,” he says over his shoulder. “How about, um, you could, I dunno, sit at one of the booths? Or come back in a bit I don’t mind.”

The boy heads over to a booth and slides into it. He offers Thomas a small smile, and Thomas’ stomach churns and the ache worsens and eases simultaneously.

“Right.” Thomas mumbles to himself. “Right then.”

~

After half an hour of bustling he finally finds himself seated opposite the boy.

“So,” He says, hesitantly. Again, he is struck by the notion that he’s handling the situation in a way that feels alien to him, but he doesn’t know what else to do. The other sighs.

“I s’pose there’s no point putting this off any longer. The name’s Newt.” And he sticks out a hand.

“I know,” Thomas says, surprising himself and Newt. “I mean,” he shakes his head, “I’m Thomas.”

Newt gives another small smile.

“I know.”

Thomas’ chest feels uncomfortable in a way he isn’t sure how to describe. He looks at Newt and Newt looks at him, and he realises that he isn’t ready to continue this. Not yet. So he stands, and says exactly that. Newt looks up at him solemnly. Then he stands too, and hands Thomas a small piece of paper.

“I know exactly how ya feel.” He says quietly. “This is my number. Call me when you’re ready, right Thomas?” He says the name like it feels strange on his tongue.  

Then he walks out, and Thomas feels as though he’s bleeding all over the floor.

~

Thomas calls his number the following week. There’s a pause after Newt says hello, and Thomas shakes his head.

“Maybe this would be easier with alcohol?” he says, and Newt laughs.

~

Newt’s apartment, like Thomas’, is small. Three rooms, to be exact, if the closet-like bathroom counts as a room. The drinking begins almost immediately, which Thomas supposes is a good thing. It makes everything hurt less, anyway.

“I dunno how to explain it,” he says. “It’s like I’ve forgotten something really important, and it hurts. But, at the same time…”

“Ya don’t know if ya want to remember,” Newt supplies, nodding.

“Exactly.”

“But…” Thomas looks up at Newt, and he can feel his throat clamping up. “I want to remember you.”

Then they’re kissing, Newt in Thomas’ lap, drinks forgotten. Thomas isn’t sure who started it, all he knows is Newt’s hair is soft and he holds him as tight as he can because he thinks maybe he lost Newt at one point and he doesn’t want that to happen again.

“Tommy,” Newt murmurs, and Thomas. Stops.

Newt stops too. They sit, breathing a little harder than before, gazing at each other. Thomas feels more fragile than he’s ever felt in his entire life, he feels as though anything might shatter the walls someone else put up in his mind. But he also feels.

Curious.

It’s like a spark that ignites in his brain. He feels the curiosity growing stronger and stronger, burning brighter and brighter, and when he looks at Newt he can see that Newt is almost there too.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, because he doesn't know what’s about to happen. Newt doesn’t say anything, he just nods. Thomas grabs hold of Newt’s hand, and closes his eyes.

It’s like the curiosity he feels literally burns away all the barriers in his brain. He feels afterwards that it was a little too easy, but then he looks at Newt and he knows what happened and he thinks that maybe WICKED’s last trick was making it too easy.

It still hurts and he wonders one day if it’ll ever stop, but then Newt is there, kissing him, and he figures that he’s fine with it. The hurting means he’s still alive.

**Author's Note:**

> whomp whomp


End file.
